


Fireworks

by SilverSkiesAtMidnight



Category: Captain America (Movies), Captain America - All Media Types, Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies), The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: Bonding over trauma, Bucky Barnes Needs a Hug, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Fourth of July, Friendship, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Late Night Conversations, M/M, Post-Avengers: Age of Ultron (Movie), Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Trauma, Wanda Maximoff Needs a Hug, civil war never happened, cooking as therapy, honestly idk why there aren't more fics with Bucky and Wanda bonding they have a lot in common, so if that's what you're here for this probably isn't the fic for you, the steve/bucky is fairly implied and in the background
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-12
Updated: 2017-07-12
Packaged: 2018-12-01 04:40:14
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,236
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11478795
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SilverSkiesAtMidnight/pseuds/SilverSkiesAtMidnight
Summary: The 4th of July is a lot less fun for those with so many memories of explosions that kill instead of sparkle.Or:Late night bonding and cooking between two of Hydra's traumatized weapons.





	Fireworks

**Author's Note:**

> Hey! So this is a little 4th of July fic idea that came to me on July 5th, hence why this is way late. It's in the tags, but in case you didn't read those this entirely ignores the events of Civil War. Also Wanda is supposed to be about nineteen in this fic.

Wanda wakes in a panicked flurry, and for several long seconds she is sure she is about to die. She gasps her brother’s name, reaching blindly into the darkness beside her, already feeling the chunks of building raining down around them, burying them, crushing them.

Then, she remembers. 

The bed in Stark tower is large, and she is alone. There is no weight on her, there is no scent of smoke or plaster dust in her lungs. The blackness around her is spacious and clear. 

She sits up in bed, listening hard for what woke her. She didn’t think she’d been having a nightmare. 

“Good evening, Ms. Maximoff,” Friday’s voice is quiet and muted. “Your vital signs indicate distress. May I be of any assistance?”

There’s a loud boom from the city.

“Where are the others? Are we under attack?” she asks sharply, slipping out of bed, red already gathering around her hands.

“I have received no reports of any attacks at the moment. The rest of the Avengers are still attending the Independence Day gala to watch the fireworks.”

Yes. Fireworks. The 4th of July. It’s coming back to her now, and she lets the wisps of scarlet light dissipate. Sitting back down heavily on the bed, she tries to steady her breathing, counting four-seven-eight in and out the way Bruce taught her. Her heart pounds unevenly in her chest, and she realizes her hands are shaking. 

There’s another whistling clap of sound from beyond the window, and she sees the bright glow from outside the edge of her room’s vantage point. 

It’s such an incredibly American way to celebrate. 

Because where’s the fun if nothing explodes? She thinks, with a pang of bitter anger.

She’s not getting back to sleep, not after this. A sense of claustrophobia begins to descend upon her. Without thinking, she gets up and darts out of the suddenly too-small room. 

Even though there’s no one in this part of the tower to disturb, she pads quietly through the dim halls. She hesitates at the elevator, and then turns for the stairs instead. 

She doesn’t realize where she’s going until she’s there. The stairwell entrance opens into the Avenger’s communal kitchen, connecting into a dining room just the right size to fit all of them while still feeling homey. Friday activates the night lights as she comes in, and the room is gently illuminated in soft orange light.

She has quickly come to adore this room, almost more comfortable here than she is in her own bedroom on the best of days. She takes her first deep breath since waking up. 

She moves with more confidence now, as at-home here as a tiger in the trees. Ingredients begin to gather in an organized pile on the counter, and, alone in the night, she lets her powers flow. Cupboards swing open, and bottles and jars are drawn out on scarlet strands, her hands steady once again. It’s a relief to be so casual. She is always so careful about her abilities, so wary she rarely gets to use them when not in the middle of a fight. Lately, it feels like their only use has been destruction. To do this, free of others, of the risk of hurting anyone or of making them afraid, is like finally being allowed to use a limb that’s been tied behind her back. 

There’s another clap of sound from outside, and a bag of flour explodes in mid-air. 

She curses in Sokovian, the particles of flour raining to the floor. Releasing what remains of the bag to land with the rest on the tile, she leans herself against the counter, closing her eyes. _In one-two-three-four Hold one-two three-four-five-six-seven Out one-two-three-four-_

The hairs on the back of her neck stand on end. 

She whirls to face the shadow in the corner, eyes glowing, hands raised. 

The Winter Soldier steps smoothly forward, a knife in his metal hand, the other raised to match her defensive posture. 

It’s not a reassuring image, but it is familiar, and she relaxes slightly. 

Watching each other carefully, they both lower their hands. Her red light fades, and he slips his knife back into its sheath. 

“Hello,” she says quietly. In the month since he tracked down Steve, still a far cry from the man the Captain has told them about, and let himself be taken to the tower, she hasn’t really spoken to him. In fairness, she doesn’t think anyone else has really spoken to him either. She’s not even entirely sure he really lives at the tower, though he has his own floor like the rest of them. She’s only ever seen him at mealtimes, and she suspects he only eats with them because of the way Steve’s face lights up when he does. 

This is the first time they’ve been alone in a room together. 

He doesn’t speak in return, merely gives a curt nod of greeting. 

They stand awkwardly for another moment, and she fidgets, feeling exposed in the kitchen light he so carefully remains out of. 

Another firework goes off, a patter of smaller explosions like gunshots following, and they both tense. She sees his eyes dart around the room, and his hand flex like he wants to reach for a weapon.

She understands. 

“It’s okay,” she offers, and his eyes fix back on her. “I couldn’t sleep through them either.”

He studies her for a long moment, and then nods again, slowly this time. “No.” His voice sounds hoarse, and she wonders when the last time that he actually spoke to someone was. 

Another boom. She turns back to the kitchen quickly, remembering why she came down here in the first place. Without looking at him, she begins to work on the ingredients by hand, moving a little too fast to seem casual. 

“Cooking calms me,” she tells him over her shoulder. “Keeps my hands busy. It’s… good to create something. Reassuring.”

She senses rather than sees as he slips further into the room, positioning himself with the counter between them. 

“Steve used to draw when he got upset,” he says, sounding unsure.

She looks up, a smile on her lips. “He still does. I’ve seen some of his sketches, they’re beautiful.”  
He straightens slightly, pleased at her confirmation. 

An idea flicks through Wanda’s mind. “Would you like to help me?” 

He blinks at her, expressionless. 

She gestures at the pile of ingredients before her. “With the cooking. I can show you what to do, if you’d like.”

She’s getting used to waiting for him to study her before responding. Finally, he gives a tiny nod, and she grins. 

“We’re making piroshki. Here, you can start cooking the beef.” 

She gives him the supplies, and shows him how to brown the meat, and what to add when he’s done. Meanwhile, she works a couple feet away on the dough, mixing and kneading. They’re surprisingly at ease like this, working in the silence, and she realizes with relief that the fireworks have finally stopped. She can feel her earlier fear slowly seeping away with the familiar scent and crackle-pop of cooking meat and onions, and the soft dough beneath her fingers. 

It isn’t long before she catches Bucky glancing over at her, then back down at the meat. She catches on before he’s forced to speak, leaning over to peer into the pan. 

“That’s done.” She turns off the stove. “Now, my favorite bit.”

She sets the bowl of dough between them. “You take some dough… about this much… and you roll it out like this. Careful not to make it too thick or too thin, it should look like this.” 

He copies her actions with precision, creating a nearly perfect replica of her little dough disk. He looks to her for confirmation, and she nods, smiling. “Perfect.” 

They end up making thirty of the little golden dumplings. She realizes belatedly that she may have gone overboard in her preparations, but in a tower full of hungry superheroes, it's not like the extras will go to waste. 

It isn't until they're moving several steaming plates of them to the table that she realizes the bag of flour she broke is still scattered on the other side of the kitchen. Annoyed, she starts towards the pantry where she knows the broom is stored, and then hesitates.

_Ah, fuck it,_ she decides, and she lets her magic twist the fine powder into a pale spiral, sending it neatly into the garbage can without leaving a single grain on the immaculate tile. 

Immediately, she looks at Bucky warily, waiting for a reaction. To her surprise, she doesn't really get one. He watches her, head cocked slightly. Then, shrugging, he turns and goes back to transferring plates. A tension she didn't realize she was holding releases. 

They sit together at the table, a plate in front of each of them. 

She raises an eyebrow at him, lifts one to her mouth, and takes a big bite. The familiar treat is as delicious as ever, the flaky outside giving way to rich, savory meat and seasoning. She closes her eyes appreciatively. It’s exactly the kind of comfort food she needed. 

She opens them again to watch Bucky studying one carefully, as though searching for hidden traps. Finally, he takes a tiny, careful bite. His eyes widen, and he devours the rest of the dumpling in seconds. Wanda barely manages to keep herself from laughing, not wanting to interrupt. She’s never seen him enjoy anything so freely. She can’t contain a smile though, and he looks up at her, cheeks bulging. 

“I take it you like them?” He nods hastily, already reaching for a second one. She laughs lightly. “Good.” 

They eat in silence for a few minutes. With the fireworks gone and the warm food in her stomach, she can feel exhaustion creeping back into her bones. 

“Thank you,” she says quietly, “for staying and helping me cook.”

He pauses to look up at her. 

“It was nice to have company.” She looks out the window towards the city. “Sorry if I disturbed you at all. I just… couldn’t stay up in my room tonight. The fireworks sounded too much like bombs for me to do nothing but sit and remember.” 

She falls silent again, watching the city lights. 

“You're too young,” he murmurs. She looks at him in surprise. “You shouldn't have been made to fight.” 

She smiles without humor. “Neither should you.” 

She looks down at her plate, picking at the crust of one of the piroshki. “I think we've both had some of our choices made for us.” 

His words come out halting and rough. “I can remember the fireworks when we were kids. Stevie and I… we used to take a blanket and lie under the trees to watch. I used to say they were just for him, to wish him happy birthday.” 

“Then I got drafted.” He huffs a laugh. “A week before his birthday.” 

He looks up at her, and his eyes are haunted. “I never told him I was drafted. I told him I signed up to go to war. I didn't want him to know I was forced to go, but… I didn't think it through. I made him think I decided to leave him a week before his birthday.” 

He looks away, head down. “Even when I had choices, I didn't make good ones.” 

“You chose to come back,” she says gently. 

“You know Steve’s not the same man I first met. He's… different. Happier. He doesn't seem quite so… tired. And it happened as soon as you came back.” 

Bucky looks up at her, and she catches what might just be a glimmer of hope in his eyes. 

“You might've made bad choices in the past. I certainly know the feeling. But you're not done making them, and it seems to me that even Hydra could not make you choose to be bad, not when someone reminded you you _could_ choose.” 

She goes back to turning the dumpling in her hands. Finally, he responds: 

“And I think we should both remember that being driven to make a bad choice isn't really a choice at all.” 

She meets his eyes, and she knows he means it. 

Friday’s voice breaks the moment. 

“Pardon the interruption, but Mr. Stark has asked me to notify you if you were awake that the Avengers have left the gala and should arrive at the tower in about twenty minutes.” 

“Thank you Friday,” she shoots Bucky a smile. “I believe that is my cue to go to bed. I'm a little too tired for socializing at the moment.” She stands, a red strand coiling into the kitchen for plastic wrap to cover the rest of the food. 

Bucky waves her off. “I'll take care of it, get to sleep.” 

She thanks him. “Don't take too long if you want to get to your rooms before they get here as well.” 

He inclines his head slightly. “Actually, I think I'm going to wait here. Say happy birthday to Steve.”

She grins at him, bigger this time. “I think that's a lovely choice.” 

She touches his shoulder lightly, and slips back into the dark stairwell.

...........................................................................................................................................................................................................................

The following morning, Bucky is with them at breakfast, and Steve’s laugh is just a little louder than usual. 

She even thinks she catches Bucky smiling.

**Author's Note:**

> The recipe these two are making can be found at: http://allrecipes.com/recipe/26670/taylors-piroshki/ (Sorry, couldn't figure out how to link it). I took some heavy liberties with the description, because when I tried to write them following the recipe it didn't really flow right. Also if anyone wants to make these and tell me how they taste please do!! I also don't know when Bucky was actually drafted in canon, and tbh I don't really care, so don't tell me if you know. I really liked writing the potential dynamic between these two. Having both been "created" by Hydra, I'd love to see that aspect explored more in canon. In any case, I'm quite pleased with this fic, but I'd love to hear what you guys think, so please comment and leave kudos if you liked it!! Happy belated Independence Day, everyone(who is American):)


End file.
